


The London Ghost

by partofforever (edvic)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (in a way), Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artists, BDSM, Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lawyers, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Safe Sane and Consensual, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-02-18
Packaged: 2019-03-09 18:04:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13486863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edvic/pseuds/partofforever
Summary: “You weren’t listening, were you? What were you thinking about?”“You, sir,” his voice comes out dry and quiet. “Always about you.”...In London, two strangers meet everyday at a small cafe. One day, they're no longer strangers.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story may bear some resemblance to a fic I wrote for another fandom I'm no longer writing for. The idea is still extremely dear to me and yeah, I felt like writing some tomarry again, so here it is.
> 
> Additional warnings for explicit content will be added in each chapter.
> 
> Enjoy!

His feet are feather-light on the wooden floor, pale if not for the bruise around his left ankle. Purplish, it contrast with his skin, but matches with the burgundy of his open kimono.

It's always easier in the summer. Sun wakes him up just in time and there's no need for clocks or alarms, no need to disturb Tom’s sleep. The morning breeze touches the long white curtains and for one breath Harry sees it draped, stilled in a photo frame, immortalized in marble - the sunrays play on the sheer fabric like dirty kitten paws - and he keeps the view in his mind, ready to come back to it later, possibly to turn it into something lasting.

Tiptoeing, he's silent like a ghost; standing by the kitchen counter he's attentive in each movement, careful not to drop the knife in his hand or the tea-kettle standing near the edge. Earl Grey for Tom, Bai Mudan with honey for him; soon it starts to brew and Harry sets the table - a single plate, some orange juice. The eggs still have three minutes to boil.

His knee cracks when he leans down to pet V. Their cat turned a little bit overweight over the past three years. Tom is very strict about his diet - it’s Harry who can never say _no_ to his companion's demanding meowing, not when he can get a peck of the wet nose on his cheek and a content purr instead. Truth be told, they all gained weight after Harry took liking in Italian kitchen. They simply pretend it never happened.

His hair is getting out of hand again, falling into his eyes - he's been debating cutting it off, the same way he did once in a desperate attempt to change something, anything - but Tom is so attached to it, always marveling how much he loves pulling and petting and even brushing it at times, that Harry has no heart to do it to him. His only fear is seeing someone else in the mirror - someone he was in the past.

But his reflection is smiling at him every time he checks, offering a gaze full of brightness and beauty. Some days he can't believe how different he became.

The water starts boiling the same minute he hears distant steps. V runs after it, more of a dog than a cat, and Harry notices how the bathroom door clicks. The soft murmur of Tom's voice barely reaches his ears.

His tea is still bordering on the edge of _too hot_ , but he drinks it nonetheless. The sweet hint of honey makes him feel peaceful and at home; there's a safe routine in the taste he knows so well. He's almost sure the leaves at the bottom of his teacup form a flower - a somewhat crooked rose, if he had to guess - and he takes it for a good omen.

When his knees meet the floor, Harry feels how strained his back muscles are. It’s an echo of pain - a reminder that he should exercise more, stretch more. Flying comes at a price.

His eyes are glued to the floor. His heart beats fast.

It's anticipation, the sweet torture of waiting for a gift that's already well known.

"Good morning, Harry."

"Good morning, sir."

A few steps behind his back, the sound of a chair moving on kitchen tiles; he spots a single long hair under the table.

A finger finds his chin and Harry smiles looking up, warmth slowly spreading through his body at the sight of Tom. His smile is calmer, well baVd; for some reason there's always a hint of sadness in everything Tom does. It took Harry years to understand it's neither his fault, nor is it Tom's - it's simply how life goes - but Harry lights up every time he can see his lover’s smile, treasuring it more than any gift Tom ever gave him.

In the morning light Harry can easily see how much has changed. Just like him, Tom is no longer the man he used to be. When he smiles, his eyes tend to blink on reflex, and Harry counts the wrinkles around them, looking for new ones every day.

Back when they've first met it was one on left and two on right; it's a little bit more now.

Back when they've first met Tom was rarely smiling at all and Harry finds the change quite satisfying.

He’s guided closer, and when his head is placed on Tom’s lap, Harry lets his robe fall freely from his left arm, nestling himself on the hard floor that has become his favourite morning spot. V toddles back into the kitchen and rubs against his bare ankles, only to focus on the loose end of the silky sash keeping his robe in place, tugging on it for a minute.

Tom eats slowly, sipping on his tea and swiping his phone screen left and right, reading the morning news. There’s a nonchalant elegance in his moves, something that one has to be born with, that cannot be studied. Tom says Harry has it too, the aura of someone living in another, past decade - maybe the 20s, Tom jokes at times, judging by Harry’s inexplicable love towards Hershey’s Kisses - but he can’t quite believe it. He’s not as awkward as he used to be - just the opposite, he feels quite gorgeous in his own skin these days - but he could never reach Tom’s level when it comes to self-presentation.

A warm hand cups the back of his neck and he has to move again. A single finger brushes over his lips, urging them to part and so he does, his jaw slack, waiting.

Time passes. Tom eats on, reading some especially interesting article and Harry can feel how quickly saliva gathers in his mouth, threatening to slip past the seam of his lips. He breathes through his nose.

It’s hard to keep his eyes open - when he’s tilting his head up it’s only natural to close them - and he tries to concentrate on Tom’s greying hair for a change. The last case left him weary, thinned out. Harry wishes they could go on vacation somewhere far away, maybe Greece again? Somewhere warm enough to lie down and do nothing else than worship each other for fourteen days.

August, he hopes. September if Tom’s opponent appeals again.

“... all day?”

The question catches him off guard. Lost in thoughts, he doesn't realize he’s been spoken too, that Tom is looking at him, a piece of blue cheese between his fingers.

Harry feels his mouth water again, in hunger and anticipation.

“You weren’t listening, were you? What were you thinking about?”

“You, sir,” his voice comes out dry and quiet. “Always about you.”

He spots the twist of Tom’s lips, the doubt of an atheist wanting to believe in some divine being.

“Trying to fool me with that sweet talk of yours, aren’t you?”

“No, sir. I would never lie to you.”

Something shifts in the air. Tom’s smile freezes on his lips and suddenly the room falls oddly quiet, unreal. A garbage truck passes by the open window, someone laughs and curses; the lights play on Tom’s white shirt but get sucked by his pitch black vest. V meows. Harry remembers he was supposed to keep his mouth open.

The cheese is soft against his lips and cold on his tongue. He chews slowly, once again locked between Tom’s knee and his hand. He knows he’s not allowed to touch; his fingers lace around the chair leg instead.

“I’ll be home around eight.” Tom goes back to his sandwich, but his hand stays in Harry’s hair, aimlessly wrapping his locks around his fingers. “Mr. Black wants to discuss the appeal once more.”

Harry nods. He hoped they could celebrate tonight.

“I’ll be waiting, sir.”

 

* * *

 

_He sees the man every day. Seventeen minutes past seven he appears on the street corner, emerging from behind the gray wall. The swell of his coat comes first - long and elegant, it looks like an armour and makes the man seem taller than he really is. His steps are neither too short nor too long - they're just right, stable and confident, evoking some longing in Harry's blue soul as he sips his morning coffee - even if he wasn't so lithe, Gray’s ‘Ghost girl’ rather than his ‘Ballerina’, he could never do this look justice. When he’s not hunching, when he allows himself to breathe, he's a black panther, all catwalk moves - hips pushed slightly forward, his head leaning back. Usually, he's just awkward and plain, hidden beneath his long black sleeves and hair falling on his face, a mystery no one wants to unfold._

_At 7:21 the man passes by him and Harry feels the soft rush of his perfume, spicy and rich, though nowhere near obtrusive. Harry has found it in a perfumery after weeks of searching, trying one shop after another in poor attempts to avoid being a total freak, and even the name seemed suitable when he saw it for the first time - X. Truly, the man was an enigma. Charming one of the girls with what was left of his outer beauty after endless sleepless nights, he got a free sample and now every time the man is going by his usual spot at the cafe patio, Harry thinks about the pillow he had soaked with his perfumes. Usually, the white fabric is wet with tears and there's a knife underneath - Harry isn't sure why does he keep a knife under his pillow, it must have seemed a reasonable choice to hide it there once - and the scent calms him down some nights, enveloping him in dream-like affection, a touch he's never even felt, an illusion of caress. Even though he’s never spoken to the handsome stranger, he thinks about him a lot during the lonely hours between sunset and dawn._

_Some nights nothing, not even the rich bouquet of cardamom, orris and vetiver can help ease his pain and he stays awake until the once-white-wall opposite the window slowly turns from midnight black to sleepless gray to dirty yellow when morning sun creeps into the attic. On such nights his eyes are dry and he cannot weep._

_Harry knows he's a creep. If someone told him his own story, he'd laugh at the poor guy, crazy enough to find the perfume of a man he hasn't even spoken to, but it's his reality, his story. He’s starved for affection, for love, no matter how stupid it sounds in his own head, and fantasising about the man seems an easy escape, even if it brings him little comfort in the end._

_Some days he’s so desperate he has to bite his tongue to keep quiet. He has no idea what exactly would he want to say, how to address the stranger, but the man awakens something odd in his guts, a longing that makes him teary-eyed. If only, if only- His mind is prompted to create impossible scenarios, one after another, but what unites them all is the sweetness of a happy ending, the freedom of a new beginning._

_Without knowing, the man becomes his fairy tale prince._

_There’s no shadow of chance in the visions, Harry is painfully aware of it. They’re two people living in the same city, but there’s nothing else they share. They pass by each other every day, but they’re no acquaintances. They drink coffee from the same machine during lunch breaks, but they never sit side by side. They walk the same pavement, breathe the same air, but Harry knows no other pair could be as different as they are._

_So day by day, he admires the man from afar, longing for the unexplored more and tugging on his scarf; his sketchbook is still empty._

 

* * *

 

 

“Philo Gallery is pleased to present _London Ghost_ , an artistic vision brought by Harry Potter. This multimedia installation of photographs, sculpture, found objects and sound examines the complex dialogue between reality and fiction as seen by the anonymous narrator - the London Ghost, an imaginary hero roaming the streets. The exhibition will be on view from June-”

“We all know when it’ll be on, Draco.” Hearing Miss McGonagall’s voice, Harry doesn’t stop himself from looking up towards the monochrome, shiny ceiling. She’s not in her best mood. “Read the rest.”

When Draco clears his throat, his Adam’s apple bobs, and Harry can’t stop imagining it’s a fist Malfoy would gladly put right next to Miss McGonagall’s face.

With a hand moving swiftly to his mouth, he barely hides his amusement in time.

“Natural talent, Harry Potter has immortalized the dynamic landscape of London through an environmentally aware and politically astute lens. His visually seductive yet powerful vistas and sculptures

document the intimate moments of human interaction in an industrially developed city, focusing on what’s true, simple and a bit naive.” Somehow, Harry thinks, everything he’s done sounds better in Draco’s soft, pleasant voice. “Installed in varying materials throughout the exhibition, London Ghost is the guardian angel of both the author and his muses -  sometimes appearing as a scarecrow-like figure fashioned out of tattered clothing and dry tree stalks, sometime portrayed by a stranger in cloak made of raven feathers - he sees and feels more, allowing us to take a look at glimpses of everyday life in a city we all thought we knew.”

When Draco ends his speech, the room is quiet for a moment. Harry feels that the silence is more important than any kind of applause - they’re all speechless, impressed by the smooth wording and flowery metaphors. It’s hard to say how much of it is true - he’s been looking at his own works for too long to judge them, to the point of getting sick of every piece he created - but the frown disappears from Miss McGonagall’s face and all the other curators seem more than content, so maybe - maybe - it won’t end with a catastrophe.

Some days he can’t believe it’s happening - the exhibition, his own works displayed in a famous gallery, other, new ones waiting to be finished in his own atelier - like everything else in his life so far, Harry tries to accept it gracefully, without hoping for anything better or expecting something worse. Not many things can shatter his composure. Or so he thinks. Nothing bad has happened in some time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feeling extremely down this week, so yeah, here's an extra update.
> 
> Thank you for all the lovely comments and response! To be frank, I wasn't expecting any of it, and this story is so so dear to me - I'm so glad you enjoy it too.
> 
> This chapter contains mentions of abuse and alcoholism.

_ He gets a new assignment. Harry feels deeply uninspired by most of his classes, and his muse has been lying dead in a deep, deep grave since he’s finished high school, but for once school stirred his mild interest. _

_ London Ghost. _

_ It sounds ridiculous in his head, cliche, even more so after Harry hears about the ideas his peers have - black paint on white sheets, a sculpture made of shattered bulbs - but his own idea of a London Ghost is much more carnal. _

_ He starts sketching the moment he gets back home, almost excited. After months of drought, lines spark off his pencil one by one, connecting swiftly, curling with ease. The dark coat is now made of raven feathers, flying down the dusty street, the lips he’s dreamt about so many times quirk up in a smirk and Harry feels his own muscles fight the urge to smile; his eyes flutter, his hand travels up to his mouth- _

_ But it’s too late - half of a second, nothing more - and he laughs, unable to contain how good it feels to be drawing again, after the endless time of fruitless fight against himself.  _

_ Wonderful, he thinks, and another silhouette blooms under his hand, flowing onto the white paper. A lawyer turned superhero, Harry is sure he’s heard it before, but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t want to - there’s no hero like his London Ghost. The plot thickens in his head and his fingers aren’t quick enough to chase it, but he tries and draws and draws, chuckling to himself when the boy his hero rescues turns out to have dark soft hair brushing over his neck. He adds a small frown to the boy’s messy pencil-grey face - it’s hard to draw himself, he’s never tried - and moves onto the next panel, his mind buzzing as he thinks of a villain- _

_ Something cracks in the corridor and Harry jumps on his creaky chair. _

_ His breath locks his lungs for one long, nervous moment of waiting, stretching the stiff muscles around his ribs, threatening to turn his accidental breathplay into ordinary choking. _

_ He hopes, he hopes, hunches a bit, towards the desk, and for a second he’s ready to believe he’s been lucky for once... _

_... but then the handle of his door moves and wood moans against wood, the door fell out of its hinges two years ago. _

_ “Harry? Are you home?” _

_ The sharp pencil hits the floor, his heart beats heavy in his chest. He was sure he was alone. _

_ Aunt Petunia is standing at his door with an unreadable look on her face. He doesn’t have to move to feel the faint, nauseous smell of fermented alcohol clinging to her skin, rotten apples and mint, from the candies she’s been trying to cover it up with. Maybe she had to visit the bank. _

_ “What are you doing?” Her steps are only slightly uncertain; she knows the topography of the small room well enough not to stumble. “Oh, you’re working… Let me see?” _

_ Her voice is like shattered glass on a blackboard, unfitting in the tranquility of his lonely kingdom of white sheets draped on two chair he’s bought for a Kitkat on a garage sale and old albums of forgotten masters - Vrubel, ter Brugghen, Malczewski - she stopped being a part of his life a long time ago, when she decided her midday gin shots were more important than his graduation and meals. After Uncle Vernon and Dudley's car crash, she stopped caring about a lot of things. _

_ But even though he wants her to go, Harry stays in his seat. There’s nothing he can do, no place to hide or run away when she takes the final step and clutches onto his desk - her other hand tries to sneak onto his arm, but he writhes away, perched on the very edge of his chair - and he wants to scream when she touches the pages he’s filled so quickly, the messy, careless sketches that brought him a minute joy. _

_ “Those look pretty, don’t they?”  _

_ Harry is weary of the question; it doesn't catch him off guard. Nodding, he prays for the torture to end. His whole body is now a string on a bow, stretched to the maximum, ready to bend and break. _

_ He’s never too sure what Aunt Petunia will do. Despite her lifelong preaching - do this, don't do that, why can't you be more like Dudley, stupid boy? - she's the only devil Harry has met so far. _

_ Please go, please go, he prays to some unnamed gods that left him years ago, vanished into the night when Uncle Vernon tried to ‘make him a good kid’ for the who-knows-which time. Back then he thought living without god was impossible, that he'd burn in the light of sun, cursed and doomed, but it soon turned out that his belief - or disbelief - had little to do with salvation and damnation. If god was looking at him that day, he surely wasn't listening. _

_ Aunt Petunia shuffles the pages and even in the midst of silent terror Harry allows himself to be proud of how the chaotic comic looks - sure, it's repetitive, sure, it's nothing new - but he likes it nonetheless. Though fear clenches at his heart and all his muscles are tense, he knows drawing is that one thing she cannot take away from him, she just can't control- _

_ Harry feels his breath hitch. Aunt Petunia turns another page; air invades his lungs in a single sharp breath. When did he draw it? _

_ Under dim lamplight, his London Ghost smiles at the boy who's clearly himself - even as messy as he looks, missing left ear - but there can be no mistake: it's him and Aunt Petunia sees it too. For a moment, she frowns, unsure, as if she doesn't want to believe, as if she has some sort of hope, but then the grimace turns her chapped lips into a thin line and Harry knows what it means, he knows there's no escaping now, he has lost. One stupid drawing, something that could be innocent for anyone else, but is a deadly offense for Aunt Petunia and he doesn't have to listen to her words to know what will happen next. _

_ "Harry," the way she says his name makes him cringe. He hates it, hates it, because no one else ever talks to him and he's only ever known his own name spoken in her voice. It has a ringing tone to it, cymbals against altar gold, threatening. "I thought we've talked about it before." _

_ He doesn't know what to say, how to justify himself - in the end it doesn't matter; no words could erase Aunt Petunia’s anger when it's already there, strengthened by the cheap alcohol flowing through her veins, mixed with blood like ink with water. His hands are quicker than hers - if he's swift enough, will she go easy on him? Will she stick to his back? _

_ His belt buckle clincks and the sound is oddly deaf, fatal. It’s been so long since she did it, so long Harry had forgotten how it made him feel, how scary she was, how unyielding in the small gestures - an outstretched hand, a heel clicking on the wooden floor in impatience. _

_ He turns and bends, lifting his shirt. It passes over his head at the second try; his hands tremble too much.  _

_ He hates himself for being so weak. _

_ The desk seems more shaky than the last time he had to look for leverage on it - creaking, the plywood bends under his hands splayed flat on the cold surface, trying to keep his drawings untouched. Maybe, maybe she’ll let him keep his work, maybe she’ll only take that one stupid panel, maybe she’ll leave him the rest- _

_ “Turn around.” _

_ Cold sweat freezes his skin; Harry doesn’t know what this order may mean. Up front?  _

_ For a brief, ridiculous moment, his brain makes him worry about his cock - if he wasn't so paralyzed, eaten up by fear, he’d probably cover the front of his trousers - but it’s obvious Aunt Petunia would never touch him there, even to teach him a lesson. It would be ungodly. She’d have to confess.  _

_ The uncertainty only makes Harry more terrified. _

_ “Your hands,” her voice is almost kind, as if he’s done something silly and she only wants him to understand that it was bad. “Come on, honey.” _

_ “Please-” He tries to protest, but his voice is barely audible. Begging has never helped him before. He knows it won’t help him now. “I promise, I won’t-” _

_ “Your hands, Harry.” _

_ The tears guarding his eyes threaten to fall; he holds back a sob, but it’s a close thing. She knows it’ll hurt him more - in the end his hands are all that’s left of him, the only part of his being that holds any significant value - and she wants to take it away, that one thing that may be his escape if he tries hard enough. Like an addict, she has to make him stay. _

_ Harry knows he can easily push her out of the way, run down the stairs and disappear into the night, but there’s no point in running. He has nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. _

_ Trying to control his breath, he stretches his arms in an unwilling offering. Shivers of late sorrow run down his wrists, echoing in his fingertips. _

_ “You know it’s for your own good, Harry.” _

 

* * *

 

The second rib under his heart is still sore. It's been two weeks already, but Harry remembers the dull pain well enough not to touch it. The skin under his fingertips is warmer than it should be, even though he applied his antibiotic on time, just like the doctor told him to.  

At least his back recovered quickly.

His rope practice was coming along just right and Tom was more than satisfied with his progress, promising him they'll soon try something new and nothing made him more excited than scenes with Tom. Other people were... Well, he liked them, all of them, but they were not quite enough. They were lacking, even in only in Harry's eyes.

He didn't like the idea at first, practicing with someone else, but with Tom being so busy and their working hours constantly changing, Harry had no other choice if he wanted to get better at it. He never thought flying would be so exhausting and time-consuming.

Usually, a girl was bonding him, a small creature he would never suspect to be so strong and fascinating, so different than what she looked like. Her fingers were soft yet relentless, her laugh cheerful, her words sweet. Though it didn’t feel right at first - how could it when he pledged his royalty to Tom? - he learned to submit to her willingly, realizing with shock that Tom wasn’t the only one who could give him what he wanted. The thought alone felt like betrayal.

But the girl wasn’t always there. Harry heard she was teaching classes in another city.

That day, two weeks ago, he worked with someone else, someone new. Less experienced than they were claiming to be. The rope wasn’t tied strong enough. He fell.

That day Tom punished him for the first time in months. 

"Not because you disobeyed and played with someone I don't know," he said, taking his shirt off when they finally got home from the hospital and making Harry watch, "but because you could hurt yourself."

For Harry, there was no punishment more severe than stripping him off the chance to shower Tom with affection, even if in the simplest gestures - undressing him, washing his hair, bringing him his reading glasses - and when it was taken away from him, Harry knew how stupid he was, how reckless. 

That day, he slept alone. He wished for Tom to kick him off their bed and onto the floor, but Tom knew what would hurt him more - no pain was able to make him as miserable as loneliness, the cold claws of fear clutching at his soul, whispering about his past, reminding him how much was there to loose.

There is nothing he wants more than to bring Tom happiness. He used to think he enjoyed serving him, but after those three years they've spent together it got mixed up in his head, play with passion, pain with tenderness. It feels as if he fell for Tom a long time before he even knew him, so easy it is to love him.

He's no longer sure what they are.

His thoughts are scattered. With the exhibition approaching, he's struggling to ask Tom if he'll come. In the end it's almost an ode to him, a letter Harry wrote without words, an attempt to translate a feeling he doesn't understand.

They go out together sometimes - to the opera and to galleries, to the park and The Mask, but it's never official. They've never admitted that they were dating - for Tom's co-workers Harry doesn't even exist, and he himself has no friends close enough to chatter about the possibility of being Tom's boyfriend. In The Mask they're nothing more than a part of a larger play, though Harry knows that some can't believe it’s still lasting. He knows Tom isn't fond of keeping his boys around for so long.

It troubles him more and more these days, the uncertainty. They live under the same roof, drink tea at the same table, they have a  _ cat _ , and yet Harry feels unsure. In the beginning, Tom was more eager to shower him with affection through words, sweet encouragements, tender caress, and he misses those days, even if they were full of other torment. 

Oddly enough, he feels lonely just like he used to, back when Tom was no one more than a stranger, the prince from his dreams.

V rubs against his bare shoulder. His purring is soothing his overheated brain. Maybe he shouldn't think so much. Maybe he should take life as it is, enjoy it while it lasts. 

Maybe he should help it a bit.

He’s lazy and tired, but not too tired to reach for his phone. The light is perfect for taking photos.

Tossing his hair on the white sheets, he tries to capture how lovely his bruises look, nebulas and galaxies transformed into tiny crashed veins, flowers hidden under his skin, unreachable.

The bell on V’s collar rings when he jumps over Harry’s stretched leg. 

Breathing steadily, he smiles, slowly sinking into sleep. 

The bed is soft and he can smell Tom all over the pillows - not his perfume, but  _ him _ , the musky hint of his sweat and the mint of his shampoo. It's better, so much better than what he used to have before.

 

* * *

 

_ The universe is always working against those least fortunate.  _

_ Harry strongly believes he’s one of them when rain catches him without an umbrella and he has to hide under the coffee shop’s awning, hoping for a quick end. It’s March and there’s no other place he can go other than his usual spot and his hands hurt under the clumsily tied bondages; he prays they’ll heal quickly and without infection. He has no means to deal with hospitals now. _

_ “Awful weather.” _

_ His ears barely catch the words - it takes a long moment for his brain to understand the meaning, to pay attention - but when he does, the first thing he realizes is the unbelievable mixture of who’s talking to him and about what. _

_ The man, the one he’s been thinking about for months now, small talks him about weather. Harry isn’t sure if he wants to laugh or cry or ignore him, pretending he’s never heard the words. In other circumstances he could simply avoid answering, but staying under the awning, so close to each other and with no one else on this side of the window, Harry can’t lie to himself.  _

_ “I love rain.” The sentence slips from his mouth easily, without effort. It’s so cliche he wants to choke on it. “It blurs the edges.” _

_ For a long moment Harry thinks the man may simply ignore him - maybe he was talking to himself - but then, right then, a small chuckle escaped his lazily twisting lips, _

_ “So, would you like to grab a coffee with me?” _


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: explicit sexual content. Look at the end notes for details/spoilers.

The late July sun makes him lazy. Like a cat, he stretches his legs and his back presses into the chair. He yawns - there's no one in sight and besides, who would care about Harry Potter yawning? It's not like he's a celebrity. Hopefully, he'll never be one.

A lonely pigeon sits half a step away from his shoes and looks at him curiously. Despite himself, Harry smiles, as if the bird could somehow understand his emotions.

Everything's been good for some time and slowly, like a bear coming out of its cave after a long winter gets used to sun, Harry accepts that normality can be something he shouldn’t be surprised with. What he has now, is normal, or so Tom says. Food and warmth and affection - he gets everything without asking, doing things that he loves.

Even when he’s afraid that it may pass, that Tom may leave, it’s not the worst thing that could happen. He’s able to live on his own now, support himself. No one can force him to do anything.

Somewhere on the edge of his mind a lone question lingers - what would his Aunt Petunia? - but he tries to shrug it off, like some invisible dust on his shoulders.

A girl rides by him on a pastel blue bike; her long hair wave behind her back, tossed by the sheer speed of movement and Harry thinks how it reminds him of seaweed floating underwater; even the brown colour seems in place, mud merged with rich sandalwood. If New York Ghost existed, he would love it, beauty mixed with dirt, nature against artificial art.

His phone buzzes. In the almost natural tranquility of his surroundings, the sound is obtrusive.

"Sir?"

His voice rings when he picks up at last. He wishes he could put all of his thoughts, all of his love in that single word.

"Harry?"

He turns around in a heartbeat - Tom's voice echoes in his ear and phone - and there he is, his New York Ghost, in a different coat and with a touch of silver to his hair, but there's no mistake, he's still the same man Harry fell for, the same man he dreamt of back in his cold room in the attic.

The kiss they share is far from chaste; it drapes Harry in a thin veil of comfort, growing steadily with each breath they share, each slow stroke of Tom’s tongue against his teeth.

"Are you unwell, sir?" He can’t help smiling when they part, and flowers bloom in his stomach, tickling him from inside. "What's up with that sudden change of mood? You seemed distracted in the morning..."

"Did I?" The way Tom’s hand finds his knee is natural, casual. Harry feels weird sitting next to him, oddly vulnerable outside their usual surrounding. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you."

"I know."

They share another smile. The waitress comes by and takes Tom's order - _flat white, or maybe- no, I'll have the new one, the one with hazelnut syrup_ \- and doesn’t spare them a single glance, ignoring how high he is from the tight grip of Tom's hand on his. His fingers curl, dig deeper, brushing the bruise from Saturday, but it's barely noticeable; Harry knows it's there, but doesn't focus on it too much.

"Was there any progress with the case?" He's genuinely interested; he knows how much Tom thrives to be on top every time he goes to court, a soldier on a battlefield. "Did you find anything new?"

"I won once and I will win again. I always do." A swipe of thumb, a squeeze; Harry knows his cheeks started burning, dashed like rose petals. "And when it's finished, I'll kidnap you, take you on trip around the world, how's that?"

There's a hint of playful teasing in Tom's words, but when he takes Harry's hand in his own, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles, it feels like a prayer for forgiveness, a silent plea. Harry wants to hunch, to make himself smaller; he has no right to be above-

"I'm sorry I was neglecting you these past few months, love."

Love. It slips so easily from Tom’s lips.

"You don't have to be sorry, sir."

"I want to be.” Tom is genuine in his remorse, painfully so. Harry isn’t sure what to do about it. “You can only accept or ignore my apology."

They both know Harry would rather take another night of punishment than ignore anything Tom says; his words are more intoxicating than holy wine, wiser than biblical scriptures. Sweet and safe, they're the wind washing away Harry's storms, even if the seas he sails these days tend to remain calm.

"I accept."

He knows the blush is creeping higher onto his cheeks; even his ears burn, licked by the fire of excitement. There's only a bit of shame in his mind - he's learned that passing responsibility onto Tom removes most of his own boundaries. If he's ordered, how can he disobey? It's an easy surrender, giving into his will, trusting him.

When their coffee arrives, Harry drinks it on the edge of his seat. Tom's hands nudges his  legs apart and though they're sitting out in the open, when everyone can see, Harry doesn't dare to say _no_. He doesn't want to.

Up and up, the steady massaging against his knee warms him up, traveling further, to his thigh. It's ridiculous to be so sensitive, but Harry knows better - it's a promise, an ouverture; Tom's games are nothing new to him, even if his Master is always ready to come up with something new, surprising.

It still baffles him how calm Tom can be, even in the midst of offering him some under-table massage, as if nothing could shatter his composure, not even the people sitting at the table right next to them - an elderly woman with shockingly yellow plastic sunglasses and someone who has to be her daughter, judging by the similarity of their pug noses - because for Tom, there is no one more important than Harry. It's like a theatre where Tom is both the director, screenwriter and leading man, the creator and artist in one person.

It reminds him of something, but no, they were sitting inside that one time-

"I have a question, Harry." Tom sounds business-like, the fingers of his right hand curling around his cup when the left rest softly atop Harry’s clothed groin. "Would you prefer to come now or be denied when I fuck you in the toilet?"

There is no right or wrong, but Harry knows better than to reach for his own release, no matter how much his cock begs to be touched. The lazy heat fills him steadily, ignoring the lack of pressure - the promise of it is enough to make him hard.

"I'd prefer to be denied, sir."

He can't believe no one hears their conversation. He can't believe no one pays attention to what is happening.

"Smart one, aren't you?" There's something sinister in the way Tom's smiles at him, moving his chair a bit. They're closer now, so close Tom's hand is resting on his armrest and when he leans down, Harry hears his whisper clearly, "Touch yourself, Harry."

He wants to beg _Tom_ to touch him, to spare him the embarrassment, but Tom reads his mind before he can open his mouth.

"Don't you want it, love? Don't you miss it?"

Harry shakes his head; his eyes close on their own, as if it could take the sensation away, but with his sight removed, everything seems even more real - Tom’s voice caressing his ear, the heat radiating off his hand-

"How long has it been?"

"Seven months, sir."

Seven months of voluntary self-denial. His orgasms weren’t taken away, no - they were simply administered according to Tom's wish, not his.

It wasn't easy to give up on it, but it wasn't impossible either. Tom knew that denial was never hard for Harry, not after the years of neglect, driven by fear of his Aunt and God. Instead, he prefered to throw Harry off the edge time after time, until he was drained, empty, until it was too much to be touched and pleasure was merging with pain, two sides of the same coin.

He couldn't touch himself.

He missed it.

Sometimes, when Tom was away, he was ordered to edge himself for hours at times, until he was nothing more than a writhing mess wherever Tom caught him after coming back home - on the kitchen floor, on their bed, in the bathtub - and only when Tom touched him, ordered him, Harry was allowed to reach his high, flushed and crying, overstimulated. _What a needy bitch you are,_ Tom would say, staring at him from above, his shoe on Harry's wrist, threatening to crush his bones if he tried to move away. _What a mess you've become_. If he was allowed to speak, he begged - for Tom's touch, for his hand, for his cock, for a harsh slap and the swipe of leather against his ass, anything, anything-

Tom brings his trembling hand down, his back keeping the view hidden from the couple sitting at the table next to theirs.

He almost forgot how it feels.

He can feel the quickly forming wet spot and it's embarrassing how excited he got, how ready; under his fingertips - kept in place only by Tom's strong grip - his cock twitches, and it's almost too much, the mixture of fear and excitement and how wrong and wonderful it feels.

"Go on, Harry, don't make me wait."

He starts slowly, afraid of what may happen if he allows himself to go all the way, drowning in the sweet sensation of pleasure brought by his own hand, stroking his strained cock through the soft fabric, so lightly it’s more unbearable than the most punishing pace, than any torture Tom has ever ordered for him.

One, two, three - his fingers easily find the right angle, guided by the heat taking him over, rushing up and up, right to his brain and suddenly he can’t focus on two things at the same time - he can either worry about the people sitting next to them or his own insatiable hunger.

The choice is easy enough.

He's trying to breathe steadily, to control the sobs that wait to escape his mouth. It's too much - to sit there, where everyone can see, where he’s exposed-

Tom leans so close to his ear Harry can feel the shadow of his stubble grazing over his skin, sandpaper against silk, and the warm puff of his words, even if can't quite catch the sense, too concentrated on keeping his moves steady, on not making it too obvious, but it’s almost impossible, because he’s close, close, closer-

"Enough, Harry."

His finger close around nothing, once again in Tom's tight grip.

"Would you like to come, filthy boy? Would you like everyone to know how hungry you are for it? How needy?” He can’t help shivering; it’s a sweet poison, one he’s willing to swallow if Tom tells him to. “That you can't go through one afternoon without making a mess of yourself? Do you want them to see what I see? Every day I come back home?"

He can't speak; his words die somewhere on the way out, trapped behind his gritted teeth, not strong enough to force their way out. But he can still shake his head, make sure that it's knows that his decision is still the same - he would never put his own need above Tom's, not even when his whole body threatens to shatter, combust and fall, a stone sinking in a deep lake that is Tom.

"You'll get up, Harry, you'll get up and go to the bathroom, make sure to find me a nice place to fuck your pretty ass." It’s pure delight, the way he’s reformed by each word, because in the end it’s _him_ Tom is talking to, no one else, not some other man. It’s all for him. "I'll pay for our coffee and count to ten, and if you're not ready for me when I find you, be sure you'll be weeping for a touch till Sunday, darling, because I won't let you come. Do you understand?"

He nods, frantically, a wanton gasp finally leaving his lips. The table next to them is empty now; he didn't notice the couple leaving.

 

* * *

 

_It takes Harry exactly seven coffees to fall in love._

_Even in his head, the idea sounds ridiculous - he, Harry Potter, in love. But it’s true and his heart skips a bit every time he sees Tom and his stomach twists into knots when Tom says his name, when their hands brush over the coffee table when they reach for sugar at the same time. Harry doesn’t even drink coffee with sugar - he loves it black, dark and gloomy like his future - but he longs for Tom’s touch, he’s starved for it._

_Figuring out whether Tom loves him back - or shows any kind of interest in Harry’s undesirable self - is even harder than understanding his own emotions, new as they are. Ten coffees into their relationship, Harry wishes he studied psychology rather than art._

_Tom is sweet for him, a true gentleman, a runaway prince from fairy tales, but he’s like this to everyone - the waitress, the man who accidentally spills coffee on his jacket that one time, even the policeman who wants to fine him for parking in the wrong place. Harry has no idea how to read him._

_It’s no wonder he agrees when Tom invites him home after their first opera date - taking a glimpse into his house may be the chance Harry needs to understand._

_He doesn’t foresee how heavy his heart will feel at the threshold, as if he was coming into a lion’s den, not the flat of his... who? Friend? During their coffee breaks they’ve talked about art and history and music and life and what makes them happy, but Harry has no friends. He doesn't’ know what friends talk about._

_The first thing that strikes him when Tom takes off his coat is how rich he is. Harry knows, of course, that Tom is much wealthier than him - he’s seen the price tag of his perfumes in the end - but it’s one thing to see his smart clothes and perfect demeanor and something entirely different to be a witness of the luxury of his everyday life, taking a look at what life can be._

_The fireplace catches his attention first. Harry is always cold but such an extravagance seems an unnecessary waste of space and money. The warmth seeps into him from fingertips to heart, climbing up his arms when Tom fetches their drinks; it’s a Saturday evening and they’re supposed to drink red wine. Tom says it’s Pinot Noir, but the name tells Harry nothing; the only alcohol he’s ever tasted is the sour blood of Christ._

_When he feels a little bit less cold - it’s a permanent state and Harry promptly believes only sitting by Tom’s fireplace for endless hours could bring an end to it - the nearest bookshelf calls him in the secret language of paperbacks and leather covers and his inner detective resurfaces to investigate, to caught Tom on something that only Harry may know about him from that day on._

_One shelf is dedicated to history. The other one is classic literature, Tolstoy and Dickens and Jane Austen’s anthology. Tom’s books look well used, like they were read at least a few times._

_Cooking books are next, whole collections from around the world, from places Harry didn’t even hear about, and a worn out copy of_ Mastering the Art of French Cooking _catches his attention. Harry smiles taking it in hand; he can see Tom all over it, in every folded page, every stain. It’s comforting to know Tom is human too. Sometimes Harry almost believes he’s dreamt him up._

_He’s a little bit confused about the last shelve._ Ties and ropes. 99 ways to tie your knots _, things like this. For a long, confusing moment his brain works intensively to make some sense of it, but there’s none. Ropes?_

_He sees a photo frame to his right - it’s Tom and some guy, tall and tan. They’re both clad in white, sunglasses on their eyes and smiles on their faces, wind tossing their hair as they lean against each other, Tom’s arm around the stranger’s waist, the other’s hand on Tom’s shoulder. In the background, sun starts setting over a silent sea, gentle waves captured in long blue-gray lines._

_Ropes. Sea._

_Harry smiles to himself. Tom has to be a sailor._

_Before he can stop himself, Harry imagines Tom on a boat somewhere in the perfect blue, far away from the shore. He’s there too, splayed on the deck, the pale skin of his belly caressed by the sun, a canvass sun rays play on with shadows when Tom leans above him, smiling, and Harry reaches for him, wants to touch-_

_“I see you’ve made yourself at home,” the soft chuckle behind his back brings him back to the flat surface of earth quicker than a slap against his face would. Harry feels his cheeks getting red from embarrassment at his own imagination. “How do you like my books?”_

_There’s a hint of amusement in Tom’s question and Harry can’t quite understand where is it coming from._

_“I-” He’s not sure what to say. Tom caught him red-handed lurking. Spying. “Do you like sailing?”_

_For a moment Tom looks at him as if he’s concerned whether Harry hit his head on something hard when he was in the kitchen, but then his eyes travel between Harry, the lone photograph and the bookshelf behind Harry’s back and Harry can spot the moment something clicks, because Tom’s eyes grow a bit darker, heavier on his skin._

_“Sailing?” Amusement mixes with dare in Tom’s words. “No, Harry, I simply enjoy tying people up from time to time.”_

_Harry hears the words. He sees their shape twisting Tom’s mouth one after another._ Sailing _ends with a small smirk on the left side,_ no _is full of air, breathy,_ enjoy _lingers heavily on_ joy _and_ tying _raises Tom’s brows. Still, Harry doesn’t understand._

_His mouth falls open. His eyes are captured by Tom’s nonchalant smile._

_When it hits him -_ I enjoy tying _\- Harry wants to run away, but Tom is in his way and his feet are glued to the floor and his heart skips a nervous beat, like glass falling on the cold floor -_ tying people _\- and then his lungs spasm, leaving him breathless, because he was stupid, so stupid, and he’ll end tied and killed in Tom’s basement and no, no, no -_ tying from time to time _\- he doesn’t want to die, not yet, he’s too young, he still has a chance to be happy, he thought Tom was that chance, but even if he’s not Harry doesn’t want to die -_ from time to time, no, Harry, I enjoy-

_His hand reaches for the bookshelf, maybe one of the books will be heavy enough-_

_“Harry?” Tom’s voice reaches him through a mist. “Harry, I didn’t mean... God, that sounded bad, didn’t it?”_

_Before he can move, there’s a hand on his wrist - still hidden under bandages, because he can’t look at his hands, can’t stand how ugly they are now - and Tom holds it tight, thumbing over the bit of skin that isn’t hidden, and the touch seems right, safe._

_“I’m not tying people in my basement if that’s what you thought, Harry,” Tom’s eyes are warm up close, molten caramel on hazelnuts; Harry knows he could never capture that colour with paint. “Not unless they want me to at least. My basement isn’t especially comfortable.”_

_Harry feels his breath leave his throat in one long, shaky exhale.His head is spinning a bit, dizzy from the sudden rush of fresh oxygen._

_He lets Tom guide him towards the couch and accepts the glass of wine he’s offered. It’s dry and rich and he has to drink it slowly, but as long as he’s clutching onto the glass his hands cannot shake, so it’s a welcomed gift._

_Harry doesn’t know what to think. Does Tom want him to... ? He bits the question back before it rolls off his tongue._

_Tom answers him all the same._

_“I’m not in the habit of tying people on first dates if it concerns you, Harry.” He feels embarrassed and hot waves of shame lick his spine, but at least Tom isn’t laughing at him. His voice is steady now, calm. Harry wishes they were sitting a bit closer to each other, just like they did in the opera, knee to knee. “It doesn’t work this way, you can’t force someone to do it. Well, you shouldn’t try.” A moment of uncomfortable silence hangs between their ends of the green-clad couch, and then Tom says, “I’ll understand if you don’t want to go out with me again.”_

_Once again, Harry doesn’t understand. If he doesn’t have to do anything, why should they stop meeting?_

_“I... I want to see you again.” His finger curls around the glass; the ruby wine swirls and Harry thinks about blood, even though he knows blood tends to be much thicker. “Let’s just... Stay away from your basement, ok?”_

_He looks up and tries to smile._

_Tom smiles back, though not really - he snorts, and his wine is dangerously close to being slipped onto the brownish carpet._

_“I’m sure you’d have a lot of fun down there, darling.” Harry isn’t sure if it’s the endearment or Tom’s sudden closeness that makes him shiver, but he doesn’t mind it for once. He smells Tom’s perfume and it feels like home. “My mother used to keep a collection of my high school photos somewhere there.”_

_He can’t help the ridiculous laughter that shakes his arms and when Tom takes his glass away, Harry doesn’t protest, instinctively clutching onto Tom’s arm for support. It’s so easy to be around him, so warm._

_He want to ask for a kiss, but Tom reads his mind before he can open his mouth._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit sexual content: some dirty talk, public masturbation, D/s, mentions of denial/overstimulation


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for comments/kudos! I'll respond as soon as I get a minute, uni is extra stressful lately.
> 
> Spoilers! Content warning for this chapter: semi-public sex, mention of child abuse.

His legs are trembling; it's harder than usually to take control over his body, even if they've indulged in things like this before. Unexpected endeavours, new scenarios - Harry thinks he knows them all, but Tom always manages to take him by surprise.

His fingers want to touch, to finish, drawn to his cock like steel to magnet, but Harry knows better. He hasn't trespassed that rule for two years now and he's not going to do it now. Tom takes it seriously, the  _ Only I can bring you release _ thing he's so fond of, always ready to remind Harry how it feels to be kept on edge.

He fingers himself methodically, he tries to - every fiber of his being begs for a quick graze over his prostate, a touch-

The bathroom door swishes. Cold sweat graces his temples for one heart-stopping moment, but then he hears it, the rhythm he knows so well, with accent on two. Tom.

He’s suddenly aware how little space they have - crowded against the wall, unable to move with Tom behind his back, Harry wants nothing more than to rut against something, anything- 

“Good boy,” the heated whisper ghosts over the back of his neck, and his eyes close, a shiver shaking his whole body. He’s not sure how long can he last like this. “Put your hands on the wall.”

Harry obeys. It’s a natural reflex at this point, a reaction to Tom’s voice, his presence. Like a clay sculpture, he lets himself be rearranged, bent a bit, and he feels fingers inspecting him, a fingertip pushing in easily, only to check if he was dutiful enough.

He barely catches his breath when Tom pinches him without warning, and his hips thrust forward, into the perfect nothing.

“No, no, that won’t do.”

A warm hand tilts his chin, forces his mouth to open; two fingers lay flat on his tongue, pushing until he’s sure he could choke on them if he wasn’t so used to fit things wider and longer in the shelter of his mouth.

“Shh-hh, I’m sure you don’t want anyone to find us, do you?”

He hears the zipper opening, the rush of fabric, but it’s all so natural, so quick, no one would suspect what was really happening behind the closed door.

The thought makes him even more excited and it’s a shame, because - unlike Tom’s - his cock has no wet, warm hole to sink into, no hand to stroke it-

The first push takes him by surprise, even though he’s ready for it, he should be - and Tom pumps into him in short, punishing moves, caring only about himself, chasing his own completion without rest.

“I was thinking about you all day, darling, did you know?” It’s an angry growl, vibrating against his nape. “Sending me your filthy photos when I’m working- Would you want me to show them around? Are you proud of yourself, Harry?”

With saliva drooling from his mouth, he has no chance to answer, but then, right then, Tom touches him at last, in fast, dizzying strokes, and suddenly he has to use all of his will to stop himself from collapsing, from coming undone-

“Oh, you should be proud,” Tom groans and Harry is almost sure he can feel teeth on his earlobe. “You beautiful, filthy creature. Mine,” he adds, pounding into him without rest, “All mine.”

He can feel it approaching for both of them - Tom is less and less coherent in him moves, and the angle changes suddenly, hitting that sweet spot Tom loves to torture sometimes-

He spills into Tom’s hand, but his release seems modest compared to Tom’s, filling him to the brim, sating his need for some time. 

His knees threaten to give up, and when Tom moves away and the slow trickle of come leaves his hole, fluttering but not really closing, Harry presses into the wall looking for some support, some anchor. His head is spinning, white dots clouding his vision.

“Good boy,” Tom whispers right into his ear, making him even more dizzy. “All right there, sweet thing?”

He nods, not ready to use his voice. It was intense. It was good.

A kiss to his shoulder, a soft touch to his side, and Tom is dressing him up, turning him, holding close.

“No sleeping now, Harry,” the soft chuckle tickles his brain. “Go first and I’ll wait here for a moment.” Another kiss - this time placed on his forehead - and he’s pushed outside, his reflection in the square mirror somewhat unreal. “See you at home, beautiful.”

He steps out the bathroom on jelly-like legs, his vision still blurry; only Tom’s words ring clearly in his mind. 

_ See you at home, beautiful. _

 

* * *

 

_ It’s June when when he tells Tom that he wants to try.  _

_ He’s lying in Tom’s lap, head on his knee, heart in his own throat when the question hangs between them for one long moment. Tom’s hand stops petting his hair, and his fingers curl around Harry’s neck, thumb grazing over his nape; it’s familiar and safe, but his body shivers nonetheless. _

_ “You want to try?” _

_ There’s a hint of surprise in Tom’s voice - as if he was sure that Harry would never ask - and a soft edge to his hunger, blurring the shock with the slightest touch of joy. No ‘what made you change your mind?’ or ‘why today?’ and Harry thanks heaven for Tom’s acumen - or the lack of it. He doesn’t want to lie to him. _

_ Last night he had to barricade himself from the inside to keep Aunt Petunia away. She was banging on his door for two hours trying to get in and he curled into himself in the corner, covering his ears with his hands to muffle the sound of her drunken cries, the poison of her words.  _

Talk to me, Harry. I wants to talk with you, open the door. I’ll take you only a minute, talk with me for a second. Let’s eat together like we used to, how about that? Don’t you want to eat dinner with me? Harry, if you won’t open, I’ll have to break the door down. Don’t be a fool, stupid boy. I’ll have to cut off your meals again, Harry. Don’t you understand how much I sacrificed for you? You ungrateful boy!

_ From pleading to yelling, she fell silent at last. Deep down Harry hoped she tripped down the stairs and hated himself for wanting such a thing. _

_ None of it leaves his mouth when Tom’s hand tilts his chin up and brings him up, eye to eye.  _

_ “Are you sure, Harry? I don’t want you to feel obliged...” _

_ He shakes his head a little bit too quickly, a little bit too feverishly. Tom looks at him questioningly and his fingers shift from his chin to cup his cheek. His fingertips are cold under Harry’s ear, but he leans into the touch without hesitation. _

_ “Yes,” he says, nuzzling into the touch. Though Tom doesn’t move any closer, doesn’t do anything, Harry feels the echo of his touch pooling at the bottom of his spine. _

_ “Yes, sir.” _

_ “Yes, sir.” _

_ He weights it on his tongue, and it’s tastes odd and intriguing.  _

_ When it rolls off, Harry feels nervous. He’s not sure what to expect. _

_ Thankfully, Tom does. Gently, he shifts Harry off the ouch, onto the floor. There’s little difference for him, because the carpet is as soft as it looks and Harry has no idea what is expected of him when he’s placed between Tom’s legs.  _

_ It takes him a moment to arrange his limbs in something comfortable and when he stops fidgeting, Tom coaxes him into leaning closer, so close his cheek is pressed into Tom’s thigh. The fabric of his slacks is as delicate as it was ten minutes ago when he was lying on the couch and Harry doesn’t feel all that different. Confused, he looks up, but Tom is focused on his files once again, leaning on his elbow on the armrest, his brows furrowed. _

_ Harry tries to relax. It’s definitely different from what he had imagined. He thought... He thought there’ll be pain. He saw it on the internet, limbs twisted in unnatural positions, reddened skin, bruises and tears. Isn’t it how it’s supposed to look? _

_ He sees the clock from the corner of his eye. Five minutes, then ten; nothing changes but the slowly building uneasiness of his crouched legs and the strain of his spine. He doesn’t know what to think. He doesn’t know how he feels about it. _

_ His breath hitches, his hands get sweaty in his lap. Anticipation rolls over his back like a faraway thunder. _

_ He wants to ask, but he doesn’t know if he should. If he can. _

_ When Tom reaches for his hair, Harry smiles. The touch is grounding and he takes it gladly, closing his eyes. _

_ Even if the sensation is odd, it feels right; small shivers sink down his spine, from where Tom is touching - innocently, he thinks - to the bottom of his back, and he’s almost sure he likes it. _

_ Tom reads on, never too distracted to run his thumb against his skin, curling his hair around his fingers, and Harry eases into it, trying to find a perfect state of mind, a place where he doesn’t have to think whether it’s good or wrong. _

_ He’s not sure how long it lasts - he stopped counting the passing minutes - but when Tom shifts a bit, he doesn’t want it to end. _

_ “Is that... all?” _

_ Harry isn’t sure whether he’s disappointed or relieved, and when he feels Tom’s eyes on his own it takes him a long moment to understand why Tom doesn’t respond. _

_ “Is that all, sir?” _

_ This too is confusing. Mildly irritating. Awfully rewarding when Tom smiles. _

_ “Did you think I get off beating people till they bleed?” _

_ Tom looks at him with something akin a dare in his grey eyes. _

_ “I don’t know... sir.” Harry doesn’t let himself be caught making the same mistake twice. “Don’t you want to?” _

_ They look at each other for some time, Harry up and Tom down, his hand still in Harry’s hair, his thumb drawing circles into his scalp, palm covering his ear. Harry feels oddly separated from the world, pressed between Tom’s knee and his hand, secure in this weird embrace that shouldn’t probably feel so right. He’s not sure why, but Aunt Petunia would probably have something against it. _

_ “Harry,” his name sounds precious coming out Tom’s mouth and he closes his eyes again just to imprint it in his memory, to focus solely on the melody somewhere inside his head, resonating through his skull, “beating you today would bring pleasure neither to you nor me.” The grip on his jaw tightens a bit; he has to open his eyes and shiver under Tom’s heavy gaze. “I don’t know what to expect of you and you clearly don’t know what to expect of me. Would you want me to humiliate you? Discipline you? How hard could I go on you? What if I hurt you, even if by accident, because you didn’t tell me about your health condition? It’s not about beating people up, Harry.” _

_ He nods. As usually, Tom knows what he’s talking about. Harry is still confused.  _

_ “If you’d want us to try, we should discuss it first.” _

_ He nods once again. He wants to discuss. _

**Author's Note:**

> Your kudos and comments mean a lot. ❤
> 
> PS I'm back on tumblr @ [eddiesweetheart](http://eddiesweetheart.tumblr.com).


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